


Build Me Up If You Break Me Down

by orange_8_hands



Series: Sweetheart [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s02e01 In My Time of Dying, Episode: s02e02 Everybody Loves a Clown, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Impala Fic, Wordcount: 100-500
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:24:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/pseuds/orange_8_hands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His grief comes out through violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	Build Me Up If You Break Me Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fic_obsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fic_obsessed/gifts).



> I wasn't actually expecting to come back to this verse but fic_obsessed asked, so...
> 
> I'm going to do a tw: domestic violence just in case, though I tried really hard for it _not_ to read like that.

This is not the rumble of hands, beating music into my steering wheel, pausing between every song to lay one stroke at my dashboard, turning me into another instrument of joyous noise even as I stay, forever and always, a car. This is not the smooth motion of hands, using rags and wax to make me shine, make me gleam, make me preen under crooning love notes of pretty baby. This is not the gripping of hands until they whiten at the knuckles, trembling with the effort to hold onto me even as they hold onto the broken, the bleeding, hands trying to keep the brother's beating heart steady and alive.

This is a crowbar. This is grief, trying to break me.

This is anger, in every single swing. This is hate, in every single swipe.

This is the ragged crack of blame.

When he stops, when he looks away from the crater he created, when he collapses, I don't know how to tell him it's okay.

I don't know how to believe it.

**

He smooths my hood out, the damage he made, and doesn't apologize.

He adds the fourth tire, tightening screws into safety, kicks it once, twice, like usual, like he doesn't use a gauge to tell when they are full. He clears out the pieces of debris left inside my body, wipes off dust and digs his nails against the leather seats to see how sturdy they're tied to me. He paints the outside midnight, black as sorrow, black as love, and evens the tone until it spreads across all of me.

He rests his head, exhausted, finished, pours out the taste of whiskey and heartache, clenches his body into mine like I can shelter him from all the thoughts parading in his heart, all the memories that sink into his bones and make them crack. He says the word like it is ripped out of him, like it is sheared away, like it has the weight of a thousand suns, just Daddy, once again the child that I claimed, and the schism opens another inch, another mile, inside of him.

**

"Whoo! Listen to her purr! Have you ever heard anything so sweet?" he asks the brother, his voice so fond, his voice so happy, like the moment never happened, like he didn't expect me to save the father and so I was not at fault for not even trying, and I forgive, of course I forgive, because he forgives me, and we still have the road in front of us.


End file.
